Abstract
The ocean flows eternally. Constant, yet not monotonous. Consistent, yet unpredictable. It fights, struggles, tears itself to smithereens. It crashes against rocks, spatters into droplets. It reclines gently on the sand. With its waters it sculpts mountains, with a thunder it smashes them into rubble. It disguises itself as an avalanche, burns in a white smoke, foams. It pretends to be lava. It roars, hisses, murmurs, quiets down to whisper, and recedes into the abyss. It never falls into habits. “They bother me because I’m a foreigner. They blame me for starting the war.” “Which war?” his mother asked. “They don’t exactly say which one.” “So why did you invite them to your birthday party?” irritated, she proceeded to straighten his paper crown with the many-colored jewels painted on it. “Because I like them, even if they bother me.” The mother disappeared in the corridor. She tidied the visitors’ shoes into neat rows, which were left in disarray. “Shoes off,” she told the kids coming in, who took them off reluctantly. “I won’t clean after you.”
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